The River
by snarkyroxy
Summary: She couldn't see his face, but there was something forlorn about the lone boy, almost the same age as she, who sat on the opposite bank with his head in his hands.


**The River**

by snarkyroxy

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_Author's Note: This ficlet was written for Hobbit Tabby, who dared me to write a drabble about something from Snape's childhood. It's a bit long for a drabble, but the ideas just kept on coming - I have a feeling this isn't the last I'll write of this particular storyline. Tabby also requested nothing too dark or angsty... oops._

_Disclaimer: As usual, I'm just playing. I'll put them back in their box when I'm done._

_- _

She couldn't explain what fascinated her about him, what drew her to seek him every day. He wasn't much to look at, after all. He had lank, jet black hair, pale skin and an overly large nose for someone so young, not to mention the strange, threadbare cloak he always wore over his equally thin pants and jumper.

Pulling her own coat more tightly about her shoulders, she crossed her arms in a vain attempt to block out the biting wind whipping across the murky water. If she stood back a little, just inside the thick treeline at the top of the steep bank, she would be out of the wind.

But she wouldn't be able to see him.

And that was why she had come to the river yet again.

He stood at the opposite edge of the expanse of water, clutching an assortment of stones in one hand as he stared down the deserted waterway. In this industrial part of town, the river was usually alive with activity; barges took goods to and from the mill, whose tower she could see amidst the fog in the distance, and farmers took their produce to the market, downstream.

On Christmas Day, though, all was silent; there was not a soul in sight but for the strange boy skipping stones across the muddy water.

He was quite good at it, she mused, watching a stone bounce three... four... five times before it disappeared beneath the surface.

Practice makes perfect, her gran always said, and if the last week was anything to go by, he sure practiced a lot.

Spending the holidays at her grandparents' house in the north of England, she had wandered down to the nearby river on the second morning, thinking to amuse herself watching the flurry of activity brought on by the approaching Christmas break.

She had grown bored watching the barges after a while, though, and wandered further down the riverbank, away from the mill.

A movement on the opposite side of the water caught her eye, and it was there she had first spotted the strange boy. He seemed almost the same age as she – just shy of eleven - and his odd clothing hung off his skinny frame. She didn't have to wonder where he came from; one look at his clothing and the gauntness of his cheeks told her he was from the poor industrial slums which lined the banks of the north side of the river for miles in both directions.

She heard her mother voice in her head, warning her against the 'ruffians' from the poor side of town.

There was something about the boy, though, that kept her watching him as he skipped stones across the water for hours on end.

She had returned the following day, and the one after, and the one after that. He was always in the same spot, his face half-hidden behind the curtain of dark hair which hung almost to his shoulders.

So, on Christmas Day, she stole away from the festivities for a while, hoping to catch a glimpse of her dark enigma. He was there again, but something was different. He wasn't throwing rocks today, but sitting on a log washed up on the bank, his knees drawn up to his chest.

She couldn't see his face, but there was something forlorn about the lone figure that made her want to cry. Did he have no family with whom to share Christmas Day? Were they so poor that Christmas lunch was a far-off dream rather than reality?

Not taking her eyes from him, she crept further down her side of the bank. Her foot slipped on the icy ground, and she gasped, her boots making a scraping noise as she righted herself.

The boy looked up, startled, as the noise echoed in the stillness of the early morning, and their eyes locked.

Red-rimmed black met brilliant green, and they stared at one another for what could have been minutes or hours. There was defiance in his gaze, but also fear... of what, she did not know. Surely, he wasn't afraid of her?

Finally, a particularly strong gust of wind whipped her long, red hair across her face, and the moment was lost. A sudden coldness in her feet made her look down, and she realised the tide was rising on the steep bank, the freezing water licking at her shoes.

When she looked up again, the boy was climbing up the opposite bank into the thicket of tangled trees which hid the industrial housing beyond. She watched as he stumbled and gripped a gnarled branch of a nearby tree in his left hand to avoid slipping back down the steep bank; his right arm was clutched tightly to his chest. It reminded her of the way she'd held her own arm when she had broken it falling off a swing at school.

He was watching her, and she swallowed, meeting those deep black eyes again.

"Who are you?" she called.

He scowled at her and turned again, hauling himself up to the top of the bank with his good arm.

"Wait!" she called again.

He didn't stop or turn, this time, but the wind carried two words back within her hearing.

"I'm nobody."

When she returned to the river the following day, he wasn't there.

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_finite_


End file.
